


Wrath of the Wolves

by Igneum807



Series: If We Must Starve (Let it be Together) [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I mean HURT, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Kidnapped Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Platonic Love, Platonic Relationships, Protective Witchers, Some Feral!Jaskier, Torture, and later some comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:07:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Igneum807/pseuds/Igneum807
Summary: Geralt is no longer the Butcher of Blaviken. But when Jaskier is taken and tortured by soldiers from Nilfgaard, his tightly held morality frays at the edges. Joined by Lambert and Eskel, he sets out to rescue Jaskier and slaughter the men foolish enough to harm him. Nilfgaard was prepared for the rage of the White Wolf. They aren't prepared for his brothers.Because Jaskier belongs toallthe wolves of Kaer Morhen, and they will raze kingdoms to keep him safe.Takes place after If I Starve, but can be read as a standalone. All relationships besides Geralt/Jaskier are platonic.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: If We Must Starve (Let it be Together) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706485
Comments: 557
Kudos: 3711
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If anyone is reading this after If I Starve, be warned. This one is a lot darker. There will be cuddles and happiness at the end, I promise, but the road there is long and bloody. That said, this first chapter is a short one to set up the story, and a longer addition should be out in the next few days. I'll update tags and such as needed.

The night air is sweet after so long spent in a tavern. Those places always smell of piss, ale, and sex, but the lovely folks of this particular establishment in Sodden are even more unwashed than usual. It’s the kind of stench that would have turned Jaskier away, were Geralt travelling with him. As it so happens, he is alone for the week, and expects to be so until he can meet up with Eskel farther North. 

Jaskier slings his lute over his shoulder and leans his hip against a tree outside the tavern, fully intending to relax a little in the darkness before returning to his room and the stench that accompanies it. The footsteps that crunch behind him threaten a change of plan. 

He does not turn around. Any patron coming to request a song, or perhaps a fuck, would have announced themselves by now. Jaskier tilts his head to the side as if trying to catch a conversation from within the tavern, doing his best to seem as though he has not noticed whoever is approaching him. Steel burns cold against his fingertips as he lets the dagger drop from his sleeve and into his hand. 

“Bard,” a gruff voice calls. 

Jaskier turns, an expression of pleased surprise carefully arranged on his face. Two men stand before him. Large, and judging from their stances, trained, but they’re no witchers. Jaskier’s sparring mates at Kaer Morhen have more than prepared him for two common village thugs. 

“Gentlemen,” he greets, “what can I do for you?” They’re here for the heavy coin purse at his hip, of course, but it never hurts to be cordial with one’s enemies. 

“You’re the bard who travels with that witcher.” It’s said as a statement, but Jaskier can hear the question in it. Dropping Geralt’s name has gotten him out of many a brawl in the past few years. He decides to give it a shot. 

“Indeed I am. The witcher of whom you speak is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf and muse to one humble bard.” Jaskier dips into a shallow bow, using the motion to hide how he adjusts the knife in his hand. “He’s just upstairs, waiting for me to finish my performance so he can tell me the tale of his latest monstrous conquest.”

“No, he isn’t,” the second man says. Jaskier doesn’t like the look of the sword at his hip. “You rode into town alone.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “You certainly are observant, for a mugger. I don’t suppose if I hand over my coin purse you’ll turn around and leave me alone? Forget this little meeting ever happened?”

Both men step forward menacingly, and Jaskier hears more footsteps behind him. At least three, then. Maybe more. Jaskier is an optimistic sort of person, but the odds aren’t looking great. 

“Where's the girl?” 

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. Ciri. The little ray of sunshine and remarkable magic- Geralt’s Child Surprise. She’s safely ensconced at Kaer Morhen with Vesemir and a rather deadly purple-eyed sorceress, but Jaskier would rather die than tell these brutes that. Impenetrable though Kaer Morhen seems to be, Jaskier will not send an army to its gates. 

“I haven’t the foggiest who you mean, good sir. Unless of course you mean the lovely innkeep’s daughter, and on that matter I am sworn to secrecy.” He’s talking out of his ass, letting his mouth move how it wants as he focuses in on the pendant at his throat. A direct line to his wolves. 

_They’re after Ciri._

“Don’t play coy, bard. You don’t have your witcher around to protect you this time. Tell us where the girl is and we’ll let you walk away alive.” 

Breathing behind him. The clink of metal on metal, and the harsh smell of unwashed bodies. At least two behind him, Jaskier decides, though he can't be sure until he turns around, and he knows that such a move at this point in the conversation would be a grave mistake. The second man is larger and stands with more surety. That’s where he’ll aim his first strike. 

_Who, Jaskier? Where are you?_

Geralt’s voice. Oh, Geralt. Jaskier wishes he were here, and not just for his battle prowess. He so hates sleeping in an empty bed. 

Jaskier makes a show of considering the man’s threat, taking his time to answer through the pendant. _Thugs. I count four, maybe more. Somewhere in Sodden, a three day’s ride from where I left Lambert._

“So, I tell you where the princess is, and you don’t kill me? Have I got that right?” Jaskier scratches at his chin as an excuse to have his hand up higher. He’ll need it to block with, in a moment. “Well my good sir, I only have one thing to say. Fuck you.”

Jaskier lunges as they process his words. He’s at the larger man’s side before he can draw his sword, dagger sliding elegantly through his jerkin and into the soft flesh of his stomach. The dagger is wet with blood as Jaskier darts away, his back to the tavern and his eyes on his attackers. Five of them, counting the one he just killed. He’ll really need to work on his hearing next winter, if three people managed to sneak up behind him. 

_Fuck. Don’t fight, Jaskier. Run. You can’t take that many._

Lambert’s voice that time. As the soldiers draw their blades and encircle him, Jaskier bares his teeth. 

_Little late for that, darling._

He dodges the first blow easily enough. His attackers weren’t expecting Jaskier to have any combat training, and they’re rattled from the death of their comrade. It doesn’t last long. He spins out of the way of one sword only to find another at his back. Jaskier drops to the ground and kicks with one leg, rising as the soldier he struck falls and sinking his dagger into the man’s throat. 

Two down, but the remaining three are angry. Jaskier takes a slash to the knee and crumples, hitting the ground too fast to break his own fall. He rolls away from the sword that is stabbed into the ground an inch from his shoulder. 

“Stop!” one man shouts. “We need him alive.”

“The bastard killed Fingal,” another snarls. Jaskier uses the distraction to jump to his feet and run. 

_Jaskier?_ Geralt shouts in his mind. _Get the fuck out of there._

He doesn’t make it very far. The knee slows him down, and his attackers are fast. One of them tackles him to the ground, crushing his lute in the process, and wrestles Jaskier’s dagger away from him. There’s another in his boot, and a few throwing knives in his belt, but Jaskier has no way of getting to them. He fights as best he can with only fists and curse words. 

The soldier on his back hauls him up, holding Jaskier’s hands behind his back in a harsh grip. His companion, the one shouting about the men Jaskier killed, comes up to them with fire in his eyes. He brings the pommel of his sword down hard. 

The last thing Jaskier hears before he passes out is Geralt, screaming his name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the people commenting stuff like "Rip them apart babes!"- I see you, and I love you.

_They’re after Ciri._

Geralt’s blood runs like ice when he hears it. Jaskier’s voice, sharp and panicked in his ear, hauling him out of the meditative state he’d sunk into after taking out a nest of harpies. Talkative though he is, Jaskier understands the danger of speaking through the pendants too often. He can’t know when one of his witchers is in the middle of a battle, so he uses their bond sparingly. 

_Who, Jaskier? Where are you?_

He puts out his campfire and saddles Roach as he says it, already planning the distance to the nearest town. Last he heard, Lambert and Jaskier were together in the South. 

_Thugs. I count four, maybe more. Somewhere in Sodden, a three day’s ride from where I left Lambert._

Sodden- the opposite side of the continent. Stupid, so stupid to leave him alone. Nilfgaard knows about Ciri. About Geralt. And if they know Geralt’s name, they know his bard’s. Jaskier made sure of that. 

The bird pendant is warm against his skin, trapped still beneath his armor as Geralt sets Roach down the road at a furious clip. Lambert’s voice vibrates down the line. 

_Fuck. Don’t fight, Jaskier. Run. You can’t take that many._

Jaskier won’t listen. He never does. 

_Little late for that, darling._

Geralt grits his teeth. He trained Jaskier himself, so he knows the man can hold his own, but anyone organized enough to go after Jaskier for information on Ciri will be professionals. Nilfgaard, most likely, or mercenaries on their payroll. He’s a bard for fuck’s sake, not a warrior. Whatever fight Jaskier is in right now, he’s going to lose. And when he does…

Shouting his name down the pendant does nothing. Only silence echoes back. 

_Where’d he go?_ Eskel asks. 

_Unconscious, probably,_ Lambert answers. _If it’s Ciri they’re after, they won’t kill him._

The “yet” goes unspoken. Geralt can feel worry spiraling down the connection between them. It matches his own. They’ve practiced communicating with the pendants extensively, learning to control the direction of their messages and the strength of the voices in their heads. It takes intent, usually, to send a thought down the bond, but feelings can spill over in times of distress. 

_Where are you both?_ Lambert asks, urgency in his voice. _I’m a few day’s ride away. They’ll be gone by the time I get there._

_Kaedwen._

_Southern Temeria._

He curses. Lambert is closest, but none of them are close enough. Roach flies down the road and his brothers fall silent. Geralt makes it to a city within the hour, riding into town like the wind itself and swinging off his horse before she’s fully stopped. He bursts into a tavern and people skitter back from the door, fear tainting the air around them. He slams a fist down on the bar, rattling the shelves. 

“Is there a mage in this town?”

There’s blood on his armor and rage in his eyes, and Geralt knows he looks more monster than man. He can’t bring himself to care. The maid behind the counter shakes, looking at everything but him.

“Aye, Master Witcher,” she chokes out. “Down the road, in the little shack with the blue door.”

He’s gone before the last syllable falls, slamming the door behind him so hard it shakes the building’s frame. The mage’s house is exactly where she described. It has a roof in need of new thatching and a door so small Geralt has to duck when he shoulders his way through it. 

The woman inside jumps up from her table at the sight of him. Her supper is forgotten when he drops a pile of coins by her mug and says, “Portal. Now.”

Lambert describes his surroundings as best he can and Geralt relays them in halting words. Seconds later, a portal opens on the street. Geralt leads Roach through and it snaps shut behind them. 

It was day in Kaedwen, but here it is dark. He’s in a field of wheat that sways with mocking calmness in the evening breeze. Lambert stands a few feet from him, the same dark anger swimming in his eyes that Geralt knows lives in his own. They embrace, just briefly, parting with a slap on the back and tension in their jaws. There is no joy in this reunion. 

“Eskel?” Geralt asks. 

“On his way. Says there’s a sorcerer not far from him, should be here before dawn.”

Jaskier’s voice echoes in his mind. _Little late for that, darling._

“Do we have until dawn?”

Lambert’s hand curls into a fist. “They won’t kill him.” 

He’s right. Whoever has Jaskier won’t kill him until they get what they want. But they will hurt him. They’ll do everything in their power to get him to talk, and that means knives. Blood. Broken bones and burn marks. Jaskier’s life is safe, for now. It’s his sanity Geralt fears for.

…

Jaskier wakes to a kick in the face. His head snaps back and hits something behind him. A tree, maybe? A pole? His head hurts too much to focus on anything, and someone is whispering in his ear. No, not someone. _Lambert_ is whispering in his ear, repeating Jaskier’s name over and over like a prayer.

“Lambert?” 

The kick lands on his ribs this time. Jaskier doubles over, gasping, his arms scraping against rough bark from where they’re tied behind him. 

“He’s really fucking out of it,” says a voice. It’s harsh, and too close by, and sounds nothing like Lambert whispering. Jaskier sucks in a deep breath and winces at the strain on his ribs. Reality filters back like sunlight through the foliage above. 

Lambert isn’t speaking in his ear. He’s in Jaskier’s mind, and he needs to stay there if Jaskier is to get out of here alive. The second Niflgaard knows he can communicate with magic, they’ll rip it away from him. Tilting his head back against the tree, Jaskier focuses on his pendant instead of the burning in his chest. 

_Lambert?_

Three voices shout back in elation. He winces at the sudden noise inside his skull and prays that his captors think it an effect of the kicks. His witchers, bless them, figure it out soon enough and the cacophony dies down, letting Lambert’s voice come through clear. 

_Jaskier._ He sounds relieved. _Thank fuck you’re awake. We’re coming, I promise._

Geralt cuts in. _Do you know where you are?_

Jaskier forces his eyes open and blinks at the light. He’s in a clearing. The men who attacked him by the inn are cooking breakfast around a small fire. Or, two of them are. The third, whose boot was recently acquainted with Jaskier’s face, stands next to his tree, brandishing a knife that hasn’t seen a cleaning since the last time the man took a bath. From the stench that hangs around him, Jaskier guesses it’s been at least a month. 

_Forest_ he answers, and then he thinks _knife_ as the soldier in front of him yanks on Jaskier’s hair and presses that filthy blade to his throat. 

“Not so tough now, are you?” The soldier tilts his knife until it lies against Jaskier’s pulse point. One twitch will press it deep enough to bleed. “Wake up, bard. I want you aware for this.”

The last vestiges of sleep fall away under the cold threat of steel. Geralt is shouting at him again, demanding to know what’s going on. What’s wrong. Jaskier opens his eyes wide and sends an image of the clearing rippling down the bond. Pictures act like complex thoughts and are harder to pass through the pendants, but he’s been practicing. 

_Fuck._ Geralt curses. _I’ll kill him._

_Eloquently put, love. You have my wholehearted permission to kill them all as soon as possible._

A vicious tug at Jaskier’s hair refocuses him, and he realizes that he zoned out for too long. He’ll have to be careful of that. 

“’Morning,” he greets. He says it slowly, mindful of how little movements press him closer to the edge of the blade. “Impressive campfire you’ve got here. Didn’t know scum like you could cook.”

Pain, sudden and sharp, flares as the soldier flicks his knife down in an arc from the side of Jaskier’s neck to his sternum. Blood wells up in the shallow cut and spills dark across Jaskier’s chemise. He grits his teeth against the wave of nausea that sweeps over him, shaking as he bleeds. Though, he's gratified to notice, not shaking as badly as his attacker, who is quaking with barely restrained rage. It would be funny if he weren't holding a knife.

_Worth it_ , he thinks. 

_Whatever you just did, Jaskier, do not do it again._ Eskel says the words, but Jaskier can practically see Geralt nodding along, the stormy look in his eyes that he gets whenever Jaskier does something stupid. He tunes them out. 

“This is _silk_ ” he says to the soldier. “It’s worth more than your pathetic life, so be careful with it.

“You insolent little _shit_ -“

“Iddeld,” one of the other men shouts, “don’t kill him. Cahir wants him alive.”

“Alive,” the soldier, Iddeld, says. “Not intact. Think if I cut a finger off he’d shut the fuck up?”

Jaskier stills at that. His ribs, sure. The kick to the head was a bit much, but his _fingers?_ No. 

“I think you should come eat so we can get back on the road. Rough him up later if you want, but we’ve got miles to cover.”

Iddeld growls and plunges his knife into the wood by Jaskier’s head. It nicks his ear on the way, dripping a thin, sticky line of blood onto his shoulder and distracting him from the fire down his front. It’s tiny, that nick, but it brings the truth of the situation down hard on Jaskier’s shoulders. 

He’s bleeding. Freezing. Hungry. He’s kingdoms away from his wolves with no way of knowing where he is or how they can get to him. Nilfgaard will break him down and he’ll let them do it. The gods themselves couldn’t make him betray Ciri, and as soon as Nilfgaard figures that out they’ll slit his throat and dump his body somewhere, thrown aside like so much trash. Panic sinks claws into his throat. 

_Jaskier. Come back to me, lark._ Gods he loves that name. Geralt doesn’t use it often, the oaf, partly because he’s bad at dealing with feelings but mostly because he knows the effect it has on Jaskier and likes to save it for when it counts. Like when one of them has nearly died. Or will soon. Or- _Jaskier! Breathe. Slow and steady, lark. Relax._

He tries his best to obey. In and out, measured as Geralt’s heartbeat. 

_I’m alright,_ he manages. _Thank you._

Bitter laugher echoes down the bond, distorted by magic and distance. _Don’t thank us yet,_ Lambert says. _If I hadn’t left you, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Thank us when we get there and put a sword through that bastard’s heart._

Jaskier shakes his head a little before he realizes they can’t see him. _Can’t blame yourself, Lambert. You had no way of knowing this would happen._

_We knew Nilfgaard was after Ciri. Should have figured you’d be a target._

_You stupid, stubborn man. None of this is on you, Lambert. None of it. It’s Nilfgaard, or destiny, if you go in for that sort of thing, but not you._

_Jaskier-_

He would laugh if it didn’t hurt to breathe. _No arguing while I’m in distress, darling. If you insist on blaming yourself, then come save my ass. And make me some of those scones I love when we get back to Kaer Morhen._

_I will. I swear it._

Jaskier hums quietly to himself and scoots back against the tree, trying to feel for the knives he keeps in his belt. They’re gone, probably stripped away by one of the Nilfgaardians, but the knife in his boot is still there. As long as Iddeld and his asshole friends don’t find out about it, Jaskier might be able to slip away in the night and wait for his wolves to find him. Better the forest than an enemy camp. 

_The last town I stopped in was called Osnor. Quaint, friendly- you can smell the tavern from a mile away. Can you all track me from there?_

Three affirmative answers ring in his ears, and that’s all Jaskier needs to hear. He shuts his eyes, blocking out the sounds of the Nilfgaardians breaking camp. Riding will hurt, if they let him, but walking might be worse. He wonders, idly, if the scratch on his neck will get infected. Wouldn’t that be a poetic end?

One of the soldiers whose name he does not know unties him and hauls him onto his feet. Jaskier’s knees creak from however long he spent curled up on the forest floor. His stomach rumbles loud enough for the soldiers to hear. They laugh, enjoying the beginnings of a hunger he knows will only get worse. 

Iddeld leers at him as they set out- Jaskier with his hands bound in front of him, held in place on the horse by a soldier behind him. The ride is silent save the metallic clang of armor and Jaskier’s whimpers of pain when they speed up too suddenly. He ignores the aches. He ignores the blood, still freely dripping onto his shirt. He ignores the heat, and the danger, and the pain, and lets his mind sink into the pendant. 

_Tell me a story,_ he begs his wolves. And they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Stuff gets heavier next chapter, so I'll make sure to add some warnings before the chapter. As always, thank you for reading, and feel free to leave thoughts/questions/rants in the comments!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: graphic depictions of torture and violence. 
> 
> It's darker than the first chapters, and pretty far away from the fluff of If I Starve. I'm really not nice to Jaskier here. Please only read if you're comfortable doing so.

Jaskier isn’t sure how long they travel. He’s only half conscious for most of it, caught up in a hailstorm of pain and exhaustion. He can’t remember the last time he ate. 

Night falls, but the soldiers do not stop. They push onward in the dark, riding for a larger camp in the southernmost part of Sodden. Jaskier doesn't know what they ride for, but it does not matter. There are not enough soldiers in the world to stand against the wrath of his witchers. 

The horses slow and light sears against his eyes. Campfires burn through the darkness, each one ringed by men eating and laughing as men do when they are winning a war. His captors ride past the fires. They pull up before a large tent and Iddeld pushes Jaskier off his horse. He hits the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him as a dull ache resounds from his ribcage. It’s one of Iddeld’s favorite places to strike. 

Unkind hands haul him to his feet and shove him through the opening of the tent. It smells of leather and incense, overpowering in its intensity. At the front of the tent is a throne, and in it a man, his face split by a cruel smile. Jaskier doesn’t need introductions to know his name. _Cahir._

Someone shoves him to his knees and he goes without protest. All of Jaskier’s attention is focused on channeling the image through his pendant. The fires. The men. Cahir. Anything and everything he can see, because his witchers were expecting a fight with three mercenaries. Instead, they ride to a war camp. 

_We’re a few days out,_ Eskel says, _but we’re coming._

_I know._

_Hang on, Jaskier._ It’s Geralt this time. His voice is scraped raw, even through the magic, rough like Jaskier’s is from days of screaming. There’s so much Jaskier wants to tell him. Just in case this is the last time they speak. 

Jaskier loves his romantic gestures. Songs and poems and gifts. Geralt knows that about him. He deals with it all good naturedly, rolling his eyes and grunting his way through dramatic confessions of love. But there’s more to it than that, for Jaskier. There’s mornings full of sunlight, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Meals on the road, better than any tavern food because they’re free and they’re together. Geralt’s eyes. His gentle hands. The smile that lights his face when Jaskier says something ridiculous, like he can’t believe he’s in love with such a man. Jaskier can’t believe it either. If this is the last time, there is so much he needs to say.

_Geralt, I-_

The chain around his neck is snapped off in one brutal tug.

“You kidnapped the White Wolf’s bard and didn’t think to check him for magic?” Cahir sneers. “Idiots.”

Jaskier can’t help the whimper that escapes him. It’s a weak, broken sound and he hates himself for it, but all he can see is the glint of his necklace where Cahir holds it up to a candle. His head is too quiet. Empty. It hurts more than any of the bruises Iddeld painted across his skin. The curses are gone, the mutters of his name. Geralt, Lambert, Eskel, Vesemir. Gone. 

He’s alone.

…

Geralt feels the connection break. One second Jaskier is there- hurt, but there- and the next he’s gone. He stops Roach so fast it nearly throws him off. Lambert curses, a low string of words filthy enough to make Vesemir blush.

They saw the camp. The soldiers. They saw Cahir, alone in a tent with Jaskier. Soft, breakable, mostly human Jaskier. Geralt wonders how much of him will be left by the time they get there. 

“There were at least fifty men in that camp,” Eskel says quietly. 

“Not men,” Geralt mutters. “Beasts. Prime for the slaughter.”

“It’s a suicide mission.”

Geralt draws in a breath, casting his eyes to the sky. It is suicidal. Fifty on three, even three witchers, is not odds that any sane man would accept. But with the memory of Jaskier’s panic in his mind- with the thought of some Nilfgaardian bastard tearing apart his bard, the one beautiful thing in his life before Ciri, the only person to ever hold him close without fear…

Geralt is not a sane man. 

“I will die for him, if that’s what it takes.”

Eskel levels him with a glare that feels like a challenge. Geralt stares back. Unflinching. Unwavering. His life or Jaskier’s- it’s hardly a choice. 

After a long moment, Eskel nods. “As will I.”

“So we die,” Lambert says, his voice like steel. “But we bring them with us.”

…

They start with fists. Strikes to his jaw that make his teeth rattle and punches to his stomach that would make him retch if there were any food in him to get rid of. One of them splits his lip and the blood tastes like metal on his tongue. They ask questions about Ciri, about the witchers. For once in his life, Jaskier keeps his mouth shut.

“Just tell us where the girl is,” Cahir says, “and this will all be over.”

Jaskier spits blood into his face. 

That’s when they get the knives out. Cahir watches for the most part, asking questions and looking at Jaskier with disdain. Like a piece of tainted meat. He’s grateful for it, actually, because while the nameless soldiers that tear him apart are brutal, Cahir is _creative._

The first night, Jaskier escapes with nothing worse than bruises and a chest full of slash marks. It feels like a kikimora ripped into him, but that’s alright, because he’s had a kikimora rip him apart before and he survived it. It took days of whining and frustration when Geralt wouldn’t _touch_ him for fear of tearing his stitches, but he survived it. He’s determined to survive this, too.

The second night they tie him down. Someone drives a metal stake through the ground and they loop a rope around it, knotting each end to one of Jaskier’s wrists. Cahir towers over him with a dagger in hand. Jaskier doesn’t answer his questions, just shuts his eyes and braces himself. 

When the pain comes, it isn’t where he expected it. A soldier traces shallow cuts in a circle around his wrists, directly beneath the rope. Cahir drags his blade up the bottom of Jaskier’s feet. Long, methodical lines from his heel to his toes. It’s enough to make him jerk away and shout, but not enough to damage anything major. Jaskier thinks it’s something of a reprieve. 

Then they make him stand. 

Two men pull him from the ground, arms still bound, and sling the rope over the branch of a tree. His body weight falls on his feet. Jaskier screams- an inhuman, ungodly sound. He can feel every rock and piece of dirt beneath him, digging into his cuts, burrowing under his skin like fire. Like poison. Jaskier tries to lift himself up, and suddenly he understands the shallow lines beneath the rope. He can’t relieve the pressure on his feet without opening the wounds at his wrists. Up or down, it doesn’t matter. Agony lies at both ends. 

He stands there for hours. When someone finally comes to cut him down, Jaskier collapses. He falls to his knees and presses his cheek to the cool earth. There are flames under his skin, shards of glass in his throat, hunger pains worse than the bruises across his stomach. The guards laugh as he weeps, and his bloody lips cannot even form a prayer. 

Someone fists a hand in his hair, readying him for some fresh hell, but blood loss catches up to him and Jaskier topples over into sleep.

…

Rage like thunder rolls over Sodden that night. The witchers rode until their horses could go no further and now they rest, anger swirling thick over their campfire. Geralt’s swords have been sharpened within an inch of their lives. Eskel has counted his potions so many times that the numbers have become meaningless. Lambert sits on the ground, unmoving, staring into the flames as if he wants to consume them.

Their breaths are quiet. Heartbeats slow. Silence winds around them, choking them, loud as a human scream. 

“I miss that fucking lute,” Eskel says. 

Two grunts of agreement meet his words. Lambert flicks his eyes up from the fire for a moment. “I’d take another story about Valdo Marx over this blasted silence any night.”

“Last I heard, Jaskier meant to duel him.” 

Geralt sighs. “He’s an idiot.”

An utter idiot. Silly and chatty and _warm._ Geralt misses those hands on his skin. He closes his eyes and lets himself imagine, for one blessed second, that he and Jaskier never left Kaer Morhen. Jaskier would be in bed, skin bare to the moonlight, and Geralt would slide in beside him- no space in either of their minds for things like blood or broken bones.

“He is,” Lambert agrees. “It’s one of the things we love about him.”

Eskel and Geralt freeze. The love they hold for Jaskier is common knowledge. Whatever jealousy may have existed in the beginning, when Geralt realized that Jaskier could be his and still have love for his brothers, has long since burned away. But this? Admitting it aloud? This is something new. 

“We…love him?” Eskel asks cautiously. 

Lambert finally turns away from the fire. His face is cut by the flickering light, somehow softer and more stern than Geralt has ever seen it. Honesty colors his tone when he says, “I do.” He laughs a little- the laugh of a man with nothing left to lose. “I told him so, that first winter. Haven’t you?”

Geralt has, though not in so many words. He tries to tell Jaskier how he feels every night, when all that exists is the two of them and the space they carved out for themselves in the world. He says it every time he pulls Jaskier away from a monster that would have his head. He’s saying it now. 

“Not yet,” Eskel says. “But I will. It’ll be the first thing I say after I slit Cahir’s throat.”

A growl rumbles from deep in Geralt’s chest. “Cahir is mine.” He meets each of his brothers’ eyes in turn, making sure they understand. “And he will die slowly. A cut for every time he laid hands on Jaskier. Until he begs for death.”

…

The splash of cold water drags Jaskier out of sleep. He wakes with a gasp that melds into a groan as yesterday’s injuries make themselves known. His clothes, or what’s left of them, are soaked through. Iddeld is above him, an empty bucket in his hand and a smirk twisted on his face.

“Up, bard. We aren’t done with you.”

Shivers wrack his body and Jaskier licks his lips, savoring the sweet kiss of water. It’s his first in a day or so. If infection or blood loss doesn’t kill him, dehydration might. 

“Quiet today, aren’t you? Got any smart comments about your precious _silk?_ Something more to say about the value of my life?”

Jaskier feels like a raw nerve. Every part of him was rent apart with knives and fists, stripped and bared to the world. So he should stay silent. Take the taunting and hold his tongue. Buy himself some time for his wolves to arrive. 

But they’re going to hit him anyway. 

“Didn’t know sacks of shit _had_ lives. Lucky you.”

Iddeld grabs his throat and lifts him off the ground. Jaskier claws at his hand, kicking out. He’s too weak for the blows to hurt, and the wounds on his feet reopen when they connect with Iddeld’s armor, but he can see the impotent rage his resistance sparks in his attacker’s eyes. A tiny curl of satisfaction settles in his gut. Nilfgaard hasn’t won. Not yet. 

“I am going to enjoy killing you,” Iddeld seethes. “I think I’ll drive a burning poker down your worthless throat. See if you can make your _jokes_ then.”

He lets go and Jaskier crashes to the ground. Air escapes him as he panics, breaths coming in short gasps. Slow. Geralt would tell him to go slow. He focuses on that and evens out his breathing until he can speak again. Rough though it is from screaming and bruising, his voice comes out firm. 

“My wolves will feast upon your heart,” he spits. Whether he lives to see it or not, Jaskier knows it to be true. His witchers will rain fire upon the camp, and Jaskier’s spirit will dance in Iddeld’s ashes. 

He barely feels the kick that Iddeld delivers to his ribs. It’s nothing compared to yesterday.

No one else talks to him that morning, though a soldier comes over with another bucket of water every time he starts to drift off. So be it. If he can’t have sleep, at least he can get something to drink. Jaskier lets his eyes fall shut even when he doesn’t feel tired, opening his mouth on a snore so he can catch the water when it falls. He’s drenched in an hour, but that’s alright. If he stretches his poet’s imagination, it almost feels like a bath. 

Cahir finds him at noon. He drags Jaskier by the hair and drops him at the foot of a wooden cross, hastily thrown together with splintering boards and half-rusted nails. Ugly though the thing is, Jaskier knows a whipping post when he sees one. Two men pick up his slack body and tie him to the wood. Arms spread wide, back exposed. Jaskier can hear the whisper of Cahir unfurling a whip behind him. 

“I won’t tell you where Ciri is,” he says. It’s all he has to hold onto.

“Princess Cirilla? I can find her without you, bard.” Cahir’s laugh is as sharp as his knives. “No. This-“ He snaps the whip and grins at Jaskier’s flinch. “This is just for fun.”

The first strike destroys what’s left of his shirt. Jaskier holds in a scream out of sheer stubbornness. He recites songs in his head. Lists out every noble in his family- including titles, nicknames, and epithets- just to have something to focus on. It works for the first few lashes, but soon enough the words slip through his hands like frigid water and Jaskier is left alone with the pain.

For the first time since he met Cahir, Jaskier is glad his pendant is gone. He longs for the comfort of Lambert’s voice, or the monosyllables of Geralt, but it’s better that they aren’t connected to him. Not for this. Because Jaskier cannot keep the screams from his lips, and he knows they would flow through the necklace just as loud. He has to suffer this. His witchers don’t need to hear it. 

Jaskier loses count of the lashes around twenty. Once or twice, Cahir swings the whip but doesn’t let it connect, watching as Jaskier tenses at the noise and falls into a spiral of terror when no strike follows. If he could manage words between his shouts, Jaskier would beg for mercy. But Cahir’s pace is unrelenting. All he can do is let the agony carry him along and pray, sweet gods above he does he _pray_ , that his body will give up and let him sleep. 

It doesn’t. There is no mercy in the gods, because Jaskier stays conscious until Cahir grows bored with his pain and orders the men to cut him down. He crumples like a marionette with its strings cut, hardly reacting when unwashed hands pass over his mangled back. They carry him to Cahir’s tent and throw him into a tub of salt water. 

There isn’t a scream left in Jaskier’s body. Just a flinch that never seems to end and an animalistic moan that crawls its way free of his chest. The salt creeps into his wounds and sets them alight. He burns in the water, each cut shining with pain as fresh as when it was inflicted. 

The present is too much to bear. The future is non-existent. This will kill him, he’s certain of it. Jaskier feels his mind slipping away and he welcomes the madness, falling back into memory. He’s at Kaer Morhen, curled up in a pile of witchers. Geralt is tucked against his chest, Lambert and Eskel wrapped around his back. Every inch of him is safe and warm and _loved._ Jaskier holds onto that when Cahir comes back. He holds his witchers close and lets himself disintegrate.

…

A swirl of air and the thick scent of magic announce the opening of a portal. Lambert is on his feet in an instant, sword in hand. Beside him, his brothers pull their weapons free.

The portal opens with a flourish, and from it leak the smells of home. Venison stew and old wood. Snow and pine. The smells of Kaer Morhen. Through the portal steps Vesemir. He is fully covered in armor- carrying two swords and enough daggers to take down an army, wolf pendant proud on his chest next to a diving songbird. This is the Vesemir who walked the Path. The Vesemir who made them what they are. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Geralt demands. 

“Planning,” Vesemir answers. There is a storm in his face that Lambert does not recognize. Rage so deep it could flood the continent. “Bottle your anger, Geralt. You’ll need it soon enough.”

He slings a pack from his shoulder and sets it lightly on the ground. The old leather reeks of magic. A powerful mix of witcher potions and Yennefer. 

“You’re here for Jaskier?” Eskel asks. 

“Yes. You three aren’t the only ones who care for him. The winters will be too quiet without that lute of his.” Vesemir sets his shoulders and rekindles their fire with a blast of igni. He flips open the top of his satchel, giving them a look at the magic held within. He speaks, and the tone of it sends Lambert back through the decades, when that same voice taught him his trade. To fight and maim and kill. To protect. That voice beckons them closer and whispers its plans. “Come,” Vesemir says. “We have monsters to destroy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: Torture  
> Next chapter: BEATDOWNS and some very angry witchers. Hope y'all are ready.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments are FERAL. I hope this satisfies you.

From Jaskier’s place on the floor, the tent wall rises sheer as a cliff. Dark and imposing, made from fabric so thick no daylight filters through. There are new burn marks on his skin from the previous night. Cahir heated a poker in his fire until it glowed white-hot and dragged it from Jaskier’s knee to his hip. Dots along his shoulder blades, made with fiery daggers. New bruises along his chest from Iddeld, the brute. There’s just no _artistry_ in bruises. 

He’s half mad with hunger by now. Or maybe the madness is from the pain. Whichever it is, Jaskier doesn’t really care. That tent wall taunts him. It keeps him from seeing anything beyond his own prison, from smelling anything but his own blood. Jaskier wants to see the flowers again before he dies. Just once. 

The day passes by in a haze of screams and lashes. Cahir has long since stopped asking questions. It’s a struggle to focus, to pull himself back to earth and fight to live. Jaskier is so tired. If he stopped fighting, would they kill him? Would it finally end?

_Hold on, Jaskier,_ Geralt said. 

And that’s his problem, isn’t it? Jaskier can’t let himself slip away because Geralt is coming for him. Geralt and Lambert and Eskel. They’ve had enough pain in their lives, those witchers. Broken and bloodied though he is, Jaskier itches to protect them. 

Nothing would hurt them as much as losing him. It’s a selfish thought, yes, but also a true one. Geralt sees his own death as no great loss, that’s clear enough from how he throws himself into danger, but he treats Jaskier like something precious. The best thing Jaskier can do to protect his wolves is to protect himself. To survive. 

So Jaskier closes his eyes against the pain, and holds on.

…

They attack at midnight.

One witcher is stationed at each corner of the camp. Geralt takes the east, his eyes fixed on the tent in the camp’s center. That’s his goal. That’s where they have Jaskier. Every warm body between Geralt and that tent will die by his hand. 

But first, there is a plan to follow. Geralt’s hand falls to the pouch at his belt. The bottles within clink against each other. One vial of dark purple liquid, four green spheres of thin glass, and a slim cylinder that pulses with magic. His veins already burn with witcher potions, eyes and veins dark as the night around him. 

The sentries are the first to die. Eskel scouted ahead and reported on their movements. The watch shift changes over every four hours, with two men stationed along each edge of the camp. They’re lazy and careless, drunk on their own power, unsuspecting of an attack so far from enemy territory. Humans, blind in the dark. 

Geralt slides up behind the first guard and slits his throat with a dagger. He lowers the man’s body to the ground in silence. The soldier’s partner turns to ask him something and gets Geralt’s knife between his eyes in answer. He falls hard to the ground, but there is no one around to hear. 

_East is clear._

_As is West,_ Eskel says. 

Lambert and Vesemir say the same, and Geralt pulls the cylinder that reeks of magic from his pouch. He drives it into the ground with one swift kick. Yennefer gave Vesemir a word to speak and Geralt repeats it now, staring as the cylinder unfurls into a long stream of inky black and expands in an arc to his sides. Across the camp, his brothers do the same. The dark magic flickers and twists, each witcher’s arc reaching out to connect with the others. 

_Ready._

Geralt’s swords sing out for battle. Steel for men. Silver for monsters. This night, with these beasts, they are one and the same.

He raises his arm and aims a sign at the magic by his feet. Igni. The inky trail catches quicker than oil, flame speeding along the path to meet with the sparks from his brothers. To complete a circle around the camp. A wall of flame roars up from Yennefer’s magic, taller than any man and strong as dragon fire. No human can pass through and live. 

Nilfgaard is trapped. 

And Geralt is _furious._

…

Eskel grins as the fire flares up behind him. There is a moment of silence before anyone notices, and then the silence is shattered by cries of alarm. He runs into the camp, quick as the wolf that snarls from his pendant, to catch Nilfgaard’s soldiers unprepared. Armor-less and unarmed, the first wave of men falls beneath his swords like pigs at the slaughter.

By the time he pulls his sword free from his latest victim, word has spread. The fighters that approach Eskel are more wary, more prepared. But they swing their weapons with the confusion of men who are still half asleep and confused. He cuts them down, too- with sharp strikes to the heart and neat slices across the throat. Eskel thinks of Jaskier’s agony, his memories thick with it, and takes one soldier’s head clean off his shoulders. 

Shouts echo through the empty night. Somewhere to his left, Lambert drives his sword through a man’s knee. Bone crunches beneath steel and Lambert _laughs._

A soldier lopes toward Eskel, his armor only half in place, his sword held up in a stance that Eskel could get past unarmed. So he does. He sheathes his sword on his back and darts forward. The soldier swings, but Eskel is already inside his defenses. Knocking the sword away, he drives his hand up into the man’s chin. His head whips back, his neck snaps, and he falls to the ground, dead. 

Blood rushes past Eskel’s ears, begging him for _more._

Three soldiers approach him at once. These men are fully awake, their eyes bright and their weapons held ready. They reek of fear. 

Eskel looks a sight. Black eyes and veins. Snarling teeth, sharp in the firelight. His armor is soaked in blood, not a drop of it his. Eskel growls and a putrid smell rises in the air as one of the Nilfgaardians pisses himself. 

“The Butcher of Blaviken,” a soldier says. 

Eskel puts a blade through his throat. He ducks the next man’s swing and brings his sword up hard. Steel rings out on steel. The second soldier comes up behind him but Eskel is already moving, driving a dagger into the first man’s abdomen before kicking the second one down. He whirls around. His opponent’s weapon bites into the leather at Eskel’s shoulder. It doesn’t slow him down. Eskel uses the soldier’s shock to pull him close and stab him clean through. 

There’s blood in his hair. On his armor. It runs in rivers over the ground, soaking into his shoes and tainting the soil with death. Eskel doesn’t care. He steps over the fresh corpses at his feet like one would step over piles of steaming shit. _The Butcher of Blaviken._

“Not quite,” Eskel says, “but I am his brother.”

…

Jaskier wakes to shouts of panic. Steel clatters outside the tent, weapons drawn from sheaths and armor pulled on in the dark. The smell of smoke tickles his nose. Even if Jaskier had the strength to sit up and look around, the way his hands are tied to his ankles would prevent it. He contents himself with listening.

A soldier bursts into the tent and salutes Cahir. “Attackers, sir. We don’t know how many, but they’ve surrounded us with fire. We can’t escape.”

Oh. Fire. Attackers. No escape. A laugh bubbles up in Jaskier’s throat and he lets it free- a sparkling, joyful sound against the tapestry of death outside. _Oh, yes._ His witchers are here. 

Jaskier catches Cahir’s gaze and says, “You’re fucked.”

…

Geralt casts igni on the remnants of a campfire, reveling in the panic of the soldiers as it flares to life before their eyes. Six men circle around him. That’s a lot, even for a witcher, but Geralt came prepared. He throws one of the green containers from his pouch into the fire. It explodes on contact, dousing Geralt and his opponents in a thin mist of poison. Deadly, for a human. Not for a witcher.

The men clutch at their skin as it melts away. Geralt snarls and pushes past them, barely noticing the burn, like sleeping under too many blankets on a hot summer night. It disappears soon enough. 

He has lost track of his brothers in the fray. Has nearly lost track of himself, it seems. Geralt does not know how many people have fallen beneath his swords, but he knows that it is not enough to quell the tide of fury rising in his blood. Blood has stained his white hair red and still it is not enough. 

Acrid fear and putrid death hang heavy in the air. But through all of that, like the first rays of dawn, comes the scent of honey. Sun and wine. Joy. 

_Jaskier._

_Go,_ Vesemir orders. _We will handle the rest._

Geralt sheathes his sword and _runs._

…

Lambert whirls to face his new opponent with a manic grin. The expression slides from his face when he takes in the man before him. He sees red. Feels the bruises on Jaskier’s skin like his own wounds. Hears a slimy voice say _Wake up, bard. I want you aware for this._

Iddeld holds out a filthy dagger. Lambert snarls at him, rushes forward, grabs the pommel from his hand, and snaps the thing in half. Iddeld’s face pales. He dances out of reach and drops into a fighting stance, feet square, arms raised high. Lambert drops his sword. 

He will savor this kill. He will drain the light from this man’s eyes and use it to fill the gaping hole that opens in his chest when he thinks of that dirty blade pressed against Jaskier’s pulse. 

Iddeld, the fool, throws a punch. Lambert catches his fist in midair and _squeezes._ Bones grind into pieces in the vise of his grip. They break against each other and push through the skin until Iddeld’s hand is a mutilated mess. _Think if I cut off a finger he’d shut the fuck up?_

Lambert drives his knee into Iddeld’s stomach. _Eskel,_ he thinks, _look what I found._

A rush of violent pleasure rushes through the pendant. _Cut his cock off and throw it in the fire,_ his brother says. _Make him beg._

Lambert does just that. And when Iddeld simpers and crawls like the swine he is, Lambert crushes his skull beneath his boot.

…

Beyond the flaps of the tent, Cahir waits. The Butcher of Blaviken meets him there, steel in hand and cold, hard fury in his blood. His eyes fall to a form lying prone on the ground. Burns and bites and broken bones. Blood and bruises and blue, _blue_ eyes.

Jaskier is tied down like an animal, flayed to the bone and far too thin, but his eyes are the same. 

“I knew you would come,” Cahir says. “Do you like what I’ve done with him? Pretty little bird like that, I should have known he would _sing._ The sweetest screams you’ve ever heard, witcher.”

There is trust in those eyes. No matter how much danger Geralt puts him in, with monsters and princesses and fucking Nilfgaard, trust blazes in Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt is late, but he’s here. He’s here. 

“Yours will be sweeter.”

Cahir raises his sword in challenge. “Kill me then, Butcher. Gut me before I gut your Jaskier.”

It’s the name that does it. Geralt strikes with the full force of his wrath. Cahir grunts with the strain of blocking him, shifting backward on one foot. He steps out of the path of Geralt’s blade and retaliates with a strike of his own. 

Cahir is no common mercenary. He carries a sword like an extension of his self and he knows how to wield it. Geralt moves faster than most humans could see, much less track and fight, but Cahir keeps up with him. His thrusts are turned away with the scream of clashing swords. His arm aches from parrying expert blows after fighting so many outside. 

Geralt dances backward and Cahir follows. Cahir feints to the left but sends his sword whistling upward instead, grazing Geralt’s shoulder before he can move out of range. The wound comes as a shock- it’s the first blood anyone has drawn on him since the battle began. Cahir presses his advantage by lunging forward and driving his sword through Geralt’s side. It bleeds freely, spilling black blood over the midnight soil. 

He hardly feels it. His blood doesn’t matter when Jaskier is in pain. Besides, Geralt doesn’t need to win. 

Moonlight glints on silver as Geralt swings. Cahir blocks him and the two men struggle, neither able to move back, neither strong enough to press forward. Geralt snarls. Cahir slides to the side and Geralt’s sword clips him in the chest. He stumbles backward, blood gushing from the wound, and freezes. He goes stock still, hardly daring to breathe. Because there behind Cahir, a point of freezing steel pressed against his neck, stands Vesemir. 

There is a new flap in the tent, cut open by one of Geralt’s brothers while Cahir was distracted. Jaskier is gone. Vesemir stands in his place. There is retribution coiled in his muscles and ire in the set of his mouth. 

“Drop your weapon,” Vesemir says. 

There is nothing for Cahir to do but obey. His sword falls to the ground with a muffled thump and he falls to his knees. The reality of his position is a noose around his neck. Cahir trembles and meets Geralt’s black eyes. “Please,” he begs, “mercy.”

Geralt has mercy. It smells of honeyed wine, and Cahir tore it apart with his whip.

Vesemir holds him still as Geralt gathers what he needs. He goes outside to snap a branch off of the nearest tree and pulls thick loops of chain from one of Cahir’s chests. The broken branch is splintered at one end. Geralt takes the purple vial from his pouch and douses the wood with it, taking care to soak every crevice. With that done, he wraps the chain around Cahir’s wrists. A blast of igni makes the metal glow, singeing flesh as the loops melt into a pair of cuffs. 

Nothing remains inside of Geralt except wrath. He takes the branch and drives it slowly into Cahir’s abdomen. It misses every major organ and blood vessel, breaking through Cahir’s back and burying itself in the blood-soaked ground without killing him. Geralt planned it that way. Cahir could survive for hours with the branch in his gut, and so he will. But every second will be agony as Yennefer’s poison seeps out of the wood to circulate in his bloodstream. 

If the branch doesn’t kill him, the poison will. If the poison doesn’t kill him, the fire will. It sweeps towards them now, devouring corpses and woodland alike as it rages with a sorceress’ power. No matter how it happens, Cahir will suffer. 

Geralt sees the defeat in his eyes. He turns on his heel. Cahir screams and pleads at his retreating back, but Geralt’s mercy has blue eyes and waits for him on the other end of a portal, safe in the halls of Kaer Morhen. He returns to Jaskier's side and leaves Nilfgaard to burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, killing Cahir was fun. Writing this fic really brought out the bloodthirsty side of me, huh? 
> 
> Healing and comfort next, I promise.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by longing and the sweet, sweet sounds of Simon and Garfunkel.

Yennefer meets them the second they walk through the portal. Eskel has Jaskier cradled in his arms, Lambert a step behind him. The others will join them soon enough. 

“Bring him to the sick room,” Yennefer says, and they hasten to obey. Carrying Jaskier through the main hall makes Eskel want to retch. There’s blood on him, and piss, and all sorts of other smells that have no business in his memories of their winters together, curled up in front of the fire with music in the air. Jaskier is supposed to be bright and loud in the ancient halls, not lying silent, still as stone. 

Eskel sets him down on the bed as gently as he can manage. The room is set up with everything Yennefer needs- tinctures and salves, miles of bandages, and some jars of potions that he knows better than to ask about. The sorceress herself sweeps into the room a moment later, worry written into the lines of her beautiful face. Magic leaps to her fingertips as she leans over Jaskier. 

There are whip marks, burns, and bruises. So much pain written across fair skin that Eskel wants to scream. It took them days to get to him. Days when he was enduring _this._ Imagining the death Cahir will suffer at Geralt’s hands helps, but only so much. It doesn’t make up for the whimper that pushes past Jaskier’s teeth when Yennefer puts her hands on him. 

“Fuck,” she says. “He can’t be awake for this.” Awake is a generous term for what Jaskier is, but Eskel understands. Healing, especially magical healing, can hurt as much as the wounds themselves. “Blue bottle, cork top,” Yennefer directs, “hand it over.”

Eskel finds the bottle by his elbow and pulls out the cork before pressing it to Yennefer’s palm. She tips it into Jaskier’s mouth. He grimaces a little as the liquid goes down, but he swallows it all and is out like a light seconds later, eyes shut and muscles completely slack against the bed. 

Scents of smoke and worry are heavy in the air, undercut by a fresh wave of rage as Geralt and Vesemir push through the door. Geralt’s hands shake when his eyes fall on Jaskier- unmoving and unresponsive while Yennefer sets about cleaning his chest. In the low light of the room, Jaskier’s body is still as death. 

“Is he…?”

“No,” Lambert says firmly. “Yennefer knocked him out.”

The breath leaves Geralt like a gut punch and he falls to his knees beside the bed, reaching out to feel for Jaskier’s pulse. His eyes close when he finds it. It’s weak, Eskel is sure, but there beneath his fingers all the same. 

“Cahir?” Eskel asks. 

Thunderheads swirl in Vesemir’s eyes. “Dead. By poison, fire, and steel. Geralt made sure of it.”

Geralt, the warrior. The Butcher. The White Wolf. 

Here, gently brushing sweat-soaked hair from Jaskier’s forehead, he has never looked more like a man. Battle calloused hands trail down Jaskier’s skin in a benediction and Eskel feels the last of his bloodlust leave him, exhaustion in its place as he drops to the floor by the bed. He reaches out to touch the top of Jaskier’s foot- the only place he can reach with Yennefer bent over him- and the breath freezes in his throat. There are cuts on the bottom of his feet, dirty and half healed like he was made to stand on them again and again, never allowing the gashes to close. 

Eskel lets out a long groan. He wants to kill them all again, to re-light the fires and watch the men who did this burn. There, at least, he would be useful. But there is no one to slaughter, not anymore, and there is very little he can do to help with the healing. 

Yennefer changes focus from the cuts on Jaskier’s chest to the ones scattered down his legs, but her elbow bumps against Eskel when she tries to move. “That’s it,” she says. “This room is too fucking small for six people, and I need _focus._ All of you except Vesemir, out.”

“Why Vesemir?” Lambert demands. 

“Because he has a level head and doesn’t ask stupid questions. Now, go.” When they seem reluctant to leave, she adds in a soft voice, “There’s nothing you can do for him now besides let me work. Go- I promise to summon you as soon as I’m done.”

“Alright,” Eskel says, “we’ll go.” His aching muscles complain as he stands. He hauls Geralt to his feet as well and moves them both outside. Geralt is dead weight in his arms, slumped against Eskel as he stares into the room. Yennefer shuts the door with a bang. 

Lambert comes up beside them and slings Geralt’s arm over his shoulder, taking some of his weight. “Let’s go down to the hot spring.”

That seems to startle Geralt into awareness. His head jerks away from the door and shock glows in his eyes, mingling there with the hurt and worry that swirls like a storm through all three of them. “You want a fucking _bath_ right now? Jaskier is- he…” The fight bleeds out of him and Geralt stumbles. “I can’t leave him here.”

“You can,” Eskel says. His instincts scream at him not to walk away, not to leave Jaskier behind, but they’ll only be in Yennefer’s way if they stay. 

“We’re covered in blood,” Lambert points out. “You know how much he hates that. Do you want him to wake up to the three of us looking like we just climbed out of a selkiemore’s stomach?”

Geralt stares at the door like it’s personally responsible for keeping Jaskier away from him. His hands clench into a fist and relax again, so many emotions playing behind his eyes that Eskel can’t keep up with them all. Finally, his shoulders slump and he turns away. “You’re right,” he grunts. 

They’re all limping a little as they head to the spring, injuries, magic use, and plain old exhaustion catching up to them after hours of fighting. Eskel sways on his feet, so tired he could fall asleep standing, but he doesn’t care. Jaskier is safe. He’s safe, and he’s whole, and no one will lay a finger on him ever again. Eskel will make sure of it.

…

Freshly washed and smelling of the lavender oil that Jaskier loves, three witchers take up a vigil outside the sick room door. Geralt fails miserably at meditating, focusing instead on the voices he can hear through the walls. Yennefer asks for gauze and potions, always with a snap in her voice, commanding and expecting to be obeyed. Not many people are willing to boss around Vesemir, but she manages quite well.

Yennefer emerges hours later, nearly tripping over Lambert’s foot when she slams open the door. Vesemir hovers over her shoulder, one hand out as if preparing to catch her. Dark circles hang heavy under her eyes. Her fingers shake from exhaustion as she points into the room, blood under her fingernails. “He’ll live,” she says. 

Relief crashes over Geralt, a wave of it so strong that it overcomes his usual need for stoicism and physical distance. He sweeps Yennefer into a hug, holding her long enough to mutter “thank you” in her ear before releasing her. She arches one perfectly lined eyebrow and gives him a smile as she waves him in. 

“Watch the idiot for me, won’t you? I’m going to sleep.”

Geralt sits gently on the edge of the bed, bracing himself on the ground so he doesn’t disturb Jaskier. The blood and bruises are gone, replaced by a light flush over his cheekbones. He’s still too thin, but the rest of him looks gloriously healthy, wounds wiped away like the entire horrific ordeal never happened. Beautiful. Jaskier is beautiful like this- strong and alive beneath the moonlight, safe in Geralt’s arms. 

Lambert and Eskel follow him in, footsteps silent on the old wood floors. The bed is barely large enough for Jaskier, so there’s no way for them all to get as close as they want to be, but they try anyway. Lambert sits on one corner of the pillow and runs his hands through Jaskier’s hair while Eskel curls up by his feet, two fingers pressed against a blood vessel, taking a pulse as best he can. 

Vesemir stands in the corner, uncertain. He’s as blood soaked as they were a few hours ago and even more tired. Geralt catches his eye and he clears his throat, coming forward slowly as though afraid they’ll startle. He lifts the pendant over his head and drapes it around Jaskier’s neck, fingers ghosting over the blush on one cheek before he pulls away. 

“Speak to him,” Vesemir says. 

Geralt raises a hand to his own pendant, something bright taking form in his chest. “Do you think he can hear us?”

“It’s powerful magic. A direct mental connection. Even if he can’t understand the words, emotions and memories will go through.” Vesemir’s face is muted in the darkness, words on the tip of his tongue before he bites them back. “Give him something to dream about. Something good.”

He’s gone before Geralt can thank him. 

“Something good,” Lambert echoes. His eyes close and his hands slow in Jaskier’s hair. Geralt’s pendant vibrates gently, a memory overtaking him. Lambert is in a field somewhere, Temeria, maybe, lit by the setting sun as he takes a rare break to simply _be._ No monsters, no fighting. Just a colorful sky and a lungful of clean air. 

The memory fades as the sun sets and a new one overtakes it. It’s Eskel this time, bathing in a cold stream and grinning like a fool as silver fish dart around his legs. Then the fish are gone and Geralt sees the delight and surprise on a young woman’s face when the witcher who rescued her plays a little tune on his lute. 

Geralt pushes his own memory down the bond. He’s at a brothel, but not for sex. He take three women into a private room and has them teach him how to braid. They’re suspicious at first, confused by a witcher of all people making such a request, but as the hours pass by without a sign of violence from Geralt, they relax into it. A redhead with hair down to her waist lets him practice on her- simple braids and complex ones, some with ribbons and gemstones woven in. He leaves the next morning with oddly sore fingers and a new skill that he puts to use on Roach’s mane. His horse looks fucking ridiculous like that, but the smile it pulls from Jaskier is blinding.

“You didn’t,” Eskel laughs. 

“I did.”

A soft voice from the doorway asks, “Did what?”

Geralt turns to his child surprise with fond exasperation. “You should be asleep, Ciri.”

“I wanted to see if Jaskier is okay. And if you all came back in one piece.” She steps more fully into the room, moonlight bright on her determined face. A bouquet of wildflowers is clenched in one fist, clearly picked from the gardens out back, and she shoves them unceremoniously into Geralt’s chest as she leans over to look at Jaskier. 

“He’s fine, cub.”

“We are, too,” Eskel says. 

Ciri eyes them all meaningfully as she pulls the flowers from Geralt’s hand and starts tucking them into Jaskier’s hair. “Did you kill the bastards that took him?”

Geralt has long since stopped correcting her language. It would be hypocritical of him to tell her not to swear when he does it so often himself. Besides, curses always sound so much stronger when spoken in that delicate, royal tone of hers. 

Delight dances in Lambert’s eyes. “Of course we did.”

She nods, hands now empty of flowers, and solemnity takes over her expression. “He did it for me.”

Geralt’s throat tightens up. If anyone deserves blame here it’s him. For leaving Jaskier, for not thinking clearly about how many people know the White Wolf’s bard. He doesn’t want Ciri putting this on herself, not when it isn’t her job to protect them. 

“Ciri-“

“I know it’s not my fault.” She meets his eyes, and there is steel in her sharper than any sword. “But he did it for me. He got hurt to protect me.” A quiet sigh escapes her lips and she sinks to the floor, curling towards Geralt like she has since the day he found her, seeking the protection that he has always offered. “Can I stay here with you? Until he wakes up?”

Geralt pulls her close. It’s easy to forget how much Jaskier means to Ciri. He’s as much a father to her as the rest of them, a mentor in his own way, teaching her how to use words as effectively as Vesemir teaches her to wield a blade. “Yes. You can always stay with us.”

Ciri tucks her head into his shoulder and Geralt pushes the feeling of it through the pendant, trying to tell Jaskier that they’re here. All of them, right here. Waiting for him.

…

Jaskier wakes to thoughts of the sun. Golden rays and ocean air, memories not quite his own dragging him from sleep. His eyes flutter open and he breathes in deep. No aching in his ribs, no throbbing pain from the cuts oh his feet. His back still hurts, but it’s nothing like before.

He sits up and something soft falls onto his shoulder. A buttercup. Turning his head makes more flowers rain down on him, drifting from his hair to scatter across the bed. It must be a dream, he thinks. Quarter wood-elf or not, flowers don’t just appear in people’s hair. But if it is a dream, it’s a damn good one. 

Lambert’s hand is on the pillow next to Jaskier, the rest of his body hanging off the bed in a way that cannot possibly be comfortable. Eskel is at his feet, looking much the same. And Geralt. Oh, _Geralt._ He’s lying against one edge of the bed, Ciri in his arms, both of them asleep. Jaskier fights the exhaustion in his eyes to watch for as long as he can. To soak them in like this- his wolves around him and their lion cub between them. 

Jaskier takes the buttercup from his shoulder and tucks it behind Geralt’s ear. A dream, yes. A beautiful one. But his body is tired and his eyes are heavy, so he gives in and lets sleep claim him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more chapter of this that's pure snuggles and happiness, because these idiots deserve it. If any of you beautiful people have any other prompts/ideas/rants, please feel free to leave them in the comments. And as always, thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter came out long. Sorry for the late update, but I had so much I wanted to include! I hope you guys enjoy it.

With a mixture of magic and potions, Yennefer keeps Jaskier asleep for two days. She may have sealed his wounds, but the body needs time to recover from such a shock, and the mind must adjust slowly to the sudden absence of pain. His room is never empty for long. No matter how often Yennefer reminds them that he won’t wake, not without her there, Jaskier’s witchers still hover around the bed as though their presence will ward off something terrible. 

Yennefer pities the poor bard when he does wake. Geralt’s particular brand of stern protectiveness is wearying on the best of days. She can’t imagine bearing the brunt of _four_ smothering attitudes. 

Never mind the fact that she wants to smother him a little herself. Jaskier may be the most ridiculous human she has ever met, but he’s kind. He treats Ciri like the queen she will one day be, and he takes care of Geralt in a way that it warms her heart to see. That kind of loyalty is worth protecting.

On the morning of the third day, four anxious witchers stand at Yennefer’s back as she tips a golden flask into Jaskier’s mouth. The potion works instantly, bringing color back to Jaskier’s sleep-pale cheeks. His eyes snap open. 

“Welcome back, bard.”

Jaskier pushes himself up with a shaky exhale. “Yennefer?” He scrubs a hand down his face, vision blurring. “Where-“

She moves away and Jaskier barely has a second to adjust to his surroundings before his arms are full of Geralt, yellow eyes bright and nose tucked up under Jaskier’s chin. He inhales deeply, going with ease when Eskel settles behind Jaskier to tug them both back. There are hands on Jaskier’s shoulders- Vesemir’s, he thinks- and arms around his waist, around his chest, soft lips against his neck from where Geralt is breathing him in, steady pressure on his thigh where Lambert is pressed close. Jaskier is half convinced he’s still asleep. 

Their touch is a tide crashing towards him. Jaskier lets it carry him away. He leans into the wandering hands and tilts his head up so Geralt can scatter gentle kisses down his throat. His hands wind into someone’s hair but he doesn’t look to see whose, just shuts his eyes and holds on until the touches slow, until the thundering of his heart returns to its normal pulse. 

“Hello loves,” he whispers. It comes out raspy and thick with the emotion that runs like fire through his veins. 

“ _Jaskier,”_ Geralt says. There’s a color to his voice that Jaskier stores away to worry over later. Later, when he isn’t so warm. So _held._

“Where are we?”

Someone squeezes his hand. Jaskier follows the line of an arm up to Vesemir’s face, eyes focused on where his fingers are tangled with Jaskier’s. “Kaer Morhen,” he answers. “You’re safe now.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier shifts and four sets of arms tighten around him. He’s warm from the inside out. “With you four here, how could I not be?”

Eskel lets out a broken sound, his hands gripping so hard at Jaskier’s hips that it almost hurts before he notices and lightens up. “We weren’t there.”

Jaskier tugs on the hair his fist is tangled in- Lambert’s. Memories of fire and knives trickle into his mind, clashing with the comfort Jaskier is wrapped in. “Are they dead?”

He can’t imagine he would be here if Cahir were still alive, but that does feel too good to be true. Surely this is a fever dream, a product of his overactive imagination spurned on by pain. Surely-

“They’re dead.” 

All the breath leaves Jaskier in a rush and a desperate laugh falls from his lips. “Oh, gods.” He chokes and someone works their thumb over his hip in little circles as he calms down. “All of them? How? Cahir-“

“Fire,” Eskel says. “And poison.”

“And steel,” Geralt adds. 

There is a beat of silence as Jaskier absorbs this. Then- “I cut Iddeld’s cock off.”

Lambert says it without inflection or feeling, but the shock of it startles a laugh out of Jaskier all the same. A real one this time.

“Good. The bastard deserved it.”

Geralt makes a noise against his skin that sounds like agreement. They fall back into quiet and Jaskier basks in it. He can’t smell metal or blood anymore, just lavender oil and the slightly ripe scent of himself after who knows how long lying in bed. Jaskier would be happy to rest there forever, safe in a fortress of witchers, but a loud grumble from his stomach breaks the calm. 

“Shit,” Eskel says, “you haven’t eaten in days.”

Now that someone says it aloud, Jaskier feels the pit in his stomach. Cahir didn’t feed him much. Even if he did, Jaskier probably would have thrown it up. But here, now that losing his life isn’t an immediate concern, his hunger makes itself known. 

“There’s fresh bread in the kitchens,” Vesemir says. “Ciri and I made it this morning.”

“Perfect.” Jaskier tries to extricate himself from the pile of limbs around him, but none of the men holding him close are willing to let go. “Food now,” he argues, “cuddles later.”

Eskel makes that broken sound again and hearing it cleaves Jaskier’s heart in half. It’s the same noise Jaskier makes when Geralt comes back from fighting something in the woods covered in blood- some of it his, some of it the monster’s. Jaskier can never tell the difference. He panics the same regardless. 

He’s sure he doesn’t want to know what he looked like when they found him. Cahir spilled more of his blood in those few days than Jaskier knew he possessed. There will be scars. Up and down his body, everywhere he was touched with a blade or a hot iron. Jaskier fears the moment when he’ll have to see himself. If he’s afraid now, mostly healed, how must it have felt for Eskel and the others to see him when the wounds were fresh? 

Jaskier lets the tension bleed from his limbs and turns just far enough to drop a kiss on Eskel’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says firmly. 

Those words unlock something in his witchers, like they were waiting for assurance before letting go. Vesemir squeezes his hand once more before moving aside and Eskel and Lambert pull away, though Jaskier’s back is still pressed to Eskel’s front. Geralt slides off the bed and works a hand under Jaskier’s legs. 

“Geralt, what-“

Jaskier squeaks as Geralt lifts him, sheets and all, from the bed, holding him with one arm under Jaskier’s legs and the other supporting his shoulders. Any protests Jaskier might have had die on his lips when Geralt kisses him. It’s a reassuring kiss, all steady pressure and heat. He drops his head to Geralt’s shoulders when they break away. 

“Are you going to mother hen me all day?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt kisses him again. That means _yes,_ but it also means _I love you,_ so Jaskier shuts up and lets himself be carried.

…

The table is piled high with bread and sweets, fresh vegetables from the garden and meat from the deer Vesemir brought down last week. Geralt makes Jaskier eat slowly, putting things on his plate when it’s empty, watching him with the single- minded intensity of a hunt. The others strike up an easy conversation and Vesemir takes the opportunity to slip away. He will join the revelry later. Now, there is a job to be done.

There is a carving deep in the recesses of Vesemir’s closet- an exact replica of his wolf medallion that he whittled out of boredom last winter. Instantly recognizable but without any real power, it is precisely what he needs. He tucks the carving into his back pocket along with a simple chain and goes to find Yennefer. 

Her door is open when he arrives. He takes the invitation and goes inside, closing the door with a soft click. Yennefer sits before her vanity, hair half up in a complex twist. 

“I knew you would come,” she says. 

Vesemir nods. There is not much she does not know. “I have need of you.”

“Yes, you witchers always do.” She meets his gaze in the mirror, looking past the lingering rage that rests heavy on his brow to the plans hidden in his eyes. “What do you need?”

“A portal,” Vesemir says, “and some new clothes.”

…

His hands shake as he grips the hem of his shirt. A quick tug has it up and over his head, yet Jaskier’s eyes remain shut. The mirror he stands in front of will show him nothing good. Nothing beautiful. It would hurt him less to turn away and ignore it, but he has to know. Has to _see._

He sucks in a breath and opens on the exhale. His eyes are the first thing he sees, blue as ever. Then he trails downward, taking in the thin white lines that crisscross his chest. They’re faded, as if the wounds that birthed them were inflicted decades ago instead of mere days. The burn marks are worse. One long line runs from his left knee to his hip, the skin there streaked and pink like something twisted it out of place and put it back wrong. 

Jaskier runs his hands down his chest in a slow drag. There are bumps and ridges where there used to be smooth skin. He reaches for the burn but bile rises in his throat before he can touch it. It’s imperfect. Unnatural. Geralt wears his scars like a warrior, but these make Jaskier look weak. He feels torn apart, and no stronger for it. 

It’s a blessing when he tugs on a clean pair of trousers. The silk is cool against him and he can almost, _almost,_ convince himself that the skin beneath it is as pure as before. Almost, but not quite. He is broken. He is forever changed, forever dirtied by Cahir’s fire. 

He shrugs on the rest of his clothes and nearly runs form the mirror, determined to ignore the scars for as long as destiny will allow. 

But when has destiny ever been kind to Jaskier?

…

Geralt insists they make their way down to the hot spring after lunch. Most of the blood has been cleaned from Jaskier’s skin, but the stink of days without a proper bath hangs heavy around him. It mingles with the sour scent of lingering pain that Cahir drove so deep into his pores. Geralt can’t stand the smell of it, and even if he could, the water would do Jaskier good.

Darkness engulfs them in the spring, broken only by light filtering underneath the door and the flame of Geralt’s candle. He pulls off his own clothes easily and slides into the water with a sigh. He’s here with Jaskier. Safe and warm and about to be gloriously naked. Geralt knows better than to try for anything right now, but he still craves the sight of Jaskier’s body, free of blood and blemish, tucked up tight against Geralt’s chest. 

Jaskier strips methodically. He sinks into the pool faster than usual, hurrying where he would normally linger to let Geralt look his fill. One of the others set out Jaskier’s favorite soaps a few hours ago and he reaches for them now, scrubbing and lathering without so much as a glance over his shoulder. 

That won’t do. Geralt moves up to him, silent as he glides through the water, and replaces Jaskier’s hands with his own. He’s careful to keep his touch undemanding- not taking, simply offering his help and enjoying the feel of smooth muscle under his fingertips. They do this often enough that he expects Jaskier to melt back into his touch. Instead, Jaskier goes rigid, breaths short as he tenses but refuses to move away. 

Were anyone else to react that way, Geralt would pull away. But he knows Jaskier- the man takes loss of contact as rejection. So Geralt spreads his palm flat across Jaskier’s stomach, soap forgotten, and kisses the shell of his ear. 

“Talk to me.”

“About what, love?” Jaskier’s voice is too bright, too loud in the still of the spring. Geralt frowns and rubs circles into Jaskier’s skin with his thumb. That gesture can be relied upon to turn Jaskier into a pile of mush on most days, but now it only seems to wind him up further. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.” Jaskier sniffs and shoots Geralt a weak smile. “Except I stink to high heaven, so if you would kindly return the soap to me…?” He holds out his palm expectantly. 

Of all his odd behavior, this one is the worst. Jaskier _loves_ to talk about his feelings. Loves it even more when Geralt asks, when _Geralt_ is the one to begin a conversation about something other than monsters or their next meal. For him to stray away from talking now is of greater concern than the newfound tension in his body. 

He hands over the soap in silence and watches. Geralt has always thought words were useless. Too easy to lie, too easy to omit. Action is honest. A desperate man will glance to his treasure. A violent man’s hand will always drift to his weapon. 

Jaskier’s hands work soap over his body with an efficiency he rarely possesses. He’s quick and perfunctory for the most part, but he scrubs slightly too hard at a few spots. A line down his leg and a section of his shoulder blade get the worst of it- rubbed raw as Jaskier looks at anything besides his own body or Geralt. 

The truth, when it clicks, is horrific. So simple yet so _wrong._

Scrubbing finished, Jaskier dunks under the water. Geralt catches him as he rises, one hand unyielding on Jaskier’s chest and another wrapped around his thigh, moving him backwards until he’s completely flush against Geralt. He tries to turn, indignant, and opens his mouth to tell Geralt off. It plops shut at the touch of two fingers to a pink spot on his shoulder blade. 

Geralt wants to tell him that he’s gorgeous. Scars or not. Jaskier is all bravery and fire and sweet, aching kindness that lives in an untouchable soul, far beneath anything that can be burned by an iron. But he has tried to say such things before, and the words never fail to come out garbled, more insulting than complimentary, and certainly not beautiful. A more forceful approach is required here- one that will get Jaskier out of his labyrinthine mind. 

“Do you think less of me, for mine?” he asks.

“What?” Jaskier squirms against Geralt’s hold in a way that both of them know is useless. He tries anyway. “Geralt, would you just let me-“

Geralt silences him with a hand on his hip, dragging down the burn that mars his skin. “My scars. Do you think less of me for them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I don’t.”

“Do they make me less of a man?”

Jaskier makes a wounded noise low in his throat. “ _No,_ Geralt, no. How many times do I have to tell you-“

Lips meet skin behind Jaskier’s ear. Geralt’s hand makes its way back up Jaskier’s thigh and dances over a thin scar just below his left nipple. He trails openmouthed kisses down Jaskier’s throat.

“Do they make me less beautiful?”

Those are Jaskier’s words, not Geralt’s. Geralt would never presume to call his hulking figure “beautiful”- he’s too gnarled for such a gentle word- but Jaskier loves to use it, whispering praises like silk and honey against whatever part of Geralt he can reach every time they make love.

“No,” Jaskier breathes. 

“Then why presume any different about yourself?”

“ _Geralt…_ ” Jaskier’s voice cracks, but he stops trying to pull away. “You got yours in battle,” he mutters, “it’s different.”

This ridiculous, blind fool. His poet’s eyes miss so much. 

“You got yours protecting Ciri,” Geralt corrects. “Fighting for your life and hers, even unarmed. I think that makes us very much the same.”

No verbal answer meets his words, but Geralt does not need one to know his words struck home. Jaskier’s body falls heavy against his own and Geralt holds him up, skin to skin and soul to soul as Jaskier shakes apart, turning to bury his sobs in Geralt’s shoulder. They stand together until the grief crests, falling back into the waters of Jaskier’s mind as if it were never there at all. 

It will return. It will try to drown Jaskier in memory and fear, and it will be his task to beat it back. Geralt will be there to hold him as he does.

…

A portal spins open above the scorched earth of what used to be a Nilfgaardian war camp. From it steps a man, plain to the untrained eye, yet dripping in magic to those who know how to look. He walks to the center of the ashen field, bends to rummage in the dirt for a moment, and plunges a sword deep into the ground. Around the hilt he ties a carving. It is a simple thing- it’s message clear.

The man slings his traveler’s pack over one shoulder and sets off for the nearest town, leaving behind him the stench of death and scorched bodies. Over the carnage rules the sword. The carving. The wolf. 

He makes it to town by nightfall. No one gives the stranger more than a cursory glance as he settles in at the local tavern and orders a pint. Townsfolk chatter and the man listens, waiting. Gossip and complaint. The usual. Nothing useful is said until the bartender begins to hum a familiar tune. 

“I know that one,” the man says. “Catchy song.”

“Oh, yes.” She sighs as she fills a tankard of ale and pushes it down the table to another customer. “I hear the bard who sings it travels with a _witcher._ Can you imagine? I bet that’s why his ballads are so exciting.”

The man hums into his drink, then leans forward conspiratorially. He speaks with the stage whisper of a gossip who intends to be overheard but does not intend to admit it. “Have you seen the camp nearby lately? The Nilfgaardians?”

“Those bastards! I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since three days ago and I’m damn glad to say it. They’re nothin’ but trouble.”

Her declaration draws nods from nearby patrons. An audience. “Aye,” says the man, “you haven’t seen them lately ‘cause they’re dead.”

Gasps percolate through the room. Every ear in the tavern is tilted towards the stranger. “Dead?” the barkeep echoes.

“Burned to the ground. I walked past their camp on my way here. Just passing by, mind, hoping to find work further north, and there it is- a field of ash. Wouldn’t have known it was anything but ash if I hadn’t seen the bones.”

Another patron jumps into the conversation, his curious eyes fastened on the man’s face. “What happened to them all?”

“Can’t be sure,” the man says, and he weighs his next words carefully. “But I hear one of ‘em laid hands on the White Wolf’s bard. Some soldier brought him back to that camp like a captive and got killed for his troubles.”

“No way,” says the barkeep, but there’s uncertainty in her eyes. “One man couldn’t bring down a whole troop of soldiers, witcher or no.”

The man raises his tankard and takes a long drag, letting the tension build. “I though the same thing at first,” he says, “but then I got to thinking. S’pose there were more than one of ‘em? Witchers, I mean.”

The idea lodges itself deep in mortal minds. It twists and grows, turning concept into fact and fact into legend. The man sees it take root and drives the final nail into the coffin. 

“See for yourselves if you like. One of ‘em left his sword in the field, that wolf symbol some of them wear tied to it. I didn’t want to touch the damn thing, ‘course, but you can go look at it. Nothing but a witcher would leave something like that lying around, and a damn angry one at that.”

“Aye,” agrees the patron who spoke earlier, “we’ll send someone out at first light. If the bastards really are gone, we’ll throw a damn feast.”

The stranger laughs. “Good on you. Invite that bard, maybe.” His smile takes the edge off the suggestion and he takes another swig of ale before joking, “Just be careful not to touch him, or the witcher’ll get you.”

His barkeep shudders and tops off his pint. The conversation drifts to safer topics, ones less likely to wake men with nightmares, but the man can feel the weight of his rumor in the air. The people will send a rider the next morning, and they will find exactly what he described. She will ride back into town with hell at her heels, spinning tales of death and destruction, holding high the carving of a wolf. Rumors will spin out of control until the troop of soldiers is a battalion, until the fire burns so hot that even the bones are ash, until the witchers that fell on the camp are more beast than man. But that’s alright. Because at the center of every rumor, no matter how truthful, will be a message; The bard is not to be touched. 

The man rents a room for the night and slips away before dawn. He wanders down the road far enough to make sure he has not been followed before pulling the charm from his neck and summoning the sorceress who put it there. A portal flares to life before him, mountain winds whistling through to tousle the hair of a different man than stood there moments ago. A stronger man. A witcher. 

Vesemir returns home, content.

…

When his witchers finally decide to release some of their nervous energy with sparring, Jaskier follows Ciri to the gardens. He has never been to Kaer Morhen during the summer months before, and is overjoyed to see bunches of wildflowers blooming bright against the mountain soil. Ciri pulls him onto a patch of grass and drops her head in his lap, demanding braids. Jaskier is all too happy to oblige.

“I missed you, little lion,” he says. “Has Yennefer been treating you well?”

“Yes.” Ciri tilts her head back a little to look at him. Jaskier doesn’t know when it happened, but maturity has snuck into her face. Her cheekbones are sharper, her eyes more thoughtful. It is the face of a woman more than a girl, though she is not yet fully grown. “I missed you, too. I always do when you and Geralt leave.”

Jaskier shoots her a pleased grin, but it falters at the seriousness in her expression. “Ciri? What’s wrong, love?”

“I know what you did,” she says softly. “I know you did it for me.” 

His hands fiddle with her hair, braiding and unbraiding as he tries to think of the right words. To tell her he loves her, that he would do anything for her, but also to beg her not to ask, not to push for information from such a recent wound. 

“I did. And I would do it again, Ciri, if it kept you safe. So you mustn’t blame yourself for anything that happened to me.”

“I know. I don’t.” She sits up all the way and fixes Jaskier with a glare that rivals Vesemir’s in sheer ferocity. “Someday, I will be a queen. And then _I_ will protect _you._ How about that?”

He doesn’t doubt it. Looks forward to it, in fact. “I think that sounds lovely, my dear. What a leader you will make someday.”

…

Eskel practically drags him to the kitchen that night. Hardly an hour passes that Jaskier isn’t under the eye of one witcher or another, but he knows they need to see him alive and whole. However overdone it may be, their protectiveness is sweet. So Jaskier goes happily and helps cook. It’s quiet. Relaxing. Into the peace between them, Eskel speaks.

“I love you.”

Jaskier nearly drops his knife. He turns from the rabbit he was skinning to try to meet Eskel’s eyes, but the other man is resolutely facing away. A tick flutters in his jaw and he says, “I realized that I never said the words. I figured you knew,“ he waves his hand in Jaskier’s direction as if to say _obviously_ , “but I never said it. And then Cahir-“ He finally looks in Jaskier’s face, something desperate and wild hidden behind his expression. “I couldn’t stand myself if you- if I never said it. I love you, Jaskier, so much it scares me sometimes.”

There’s rabbit blood on his hands, but he doesn’t think Eskel will mind. Jaskier pulls his close, one hand reaching out to hold the back of his head and thread fingers through his hair. “I love you too,” Jaskier says, “and I plan on continuing to do so for many, many decades my friend. War camps and Nilfgaard be damned.”

…

The day winds to a close with joy in the halls. Jaskier takes up his lute after dinner and plays for the first time since Nilfgaard, delighted when Yennefer teaches them all a dance from her time at court. Their fire is bright and Jaskier’s heart is so, _so_ full.

Ciri tires before the rest of them and Yennefer brings her upstairs to the room they share. Jaskier feels the call of sleep not soon after. His wounds may be closed, but days of trauma and starvation took their toll on his stamina. Geralt tugs the lute from his hands when his eyes begin to droop. One look between the witchers and an agreement is reached. They head for the large room down the hall- the one with a bed large enough to fit them all, their regular sleeping quarters for the winter. 

Lambert starts up a fire while Geralt and Eskel clamber into bed. Normally, Jaskier would already be between them, soaking up as much warmth as possible. Instead, he heads to the door and the shadow that stands just beyond it. 

“Haven’t seen you all day,” he says. 

“Had something to take care of,” Vesemir answers. 

Jaskier tilts his head, considering. “And is it taken care of?”

Vesemir nods. “It is.” He lifts Jaskier’s hand and drops a chain into his open palm. Its magic sparks to life, singing through his veins like the songbird it is contained within. 

It doesn’t matter who wears which necklace, not to the magic anyway, but this one feels more like Jaskier’s than the one around his neck. He lifts that chain from his head and drops it around Vesemir instead before uncoiling the necklace in his hand and putting it on. Jaskier can feel all four of them through the magic, through the bond they share, no longer unbalanced by Vesemir’s absence. 

Sleep tugs at his limbs and Jaskier turns back to his room, already anticipating the sturdy weight of his bedfellows. It really is his favorite way to sleep. The three of them wait for him, he knows, and yet…

He reaches out towards Vesemir’s back, beckoning as he retreats down the hallway. “Come to bed, you old bastard,” Jaskier says. “I missed you.”

Vesemir pivots slowly on one heel, yet brokers no protest as Jaskier pulls him into the room. Lambert’s fire blazes in the hearth, Lambert himself sprawled shirtless beside it. Jaskier expected at least a few raised eyebrows at Vesemir’s presence, but the others take it in stride, shifting around to make space for two more bodies in the already crowded bed. 

Jaskier melts into it with a sigh. He’ll wake up in the morning with a crick in his neck, or tingles up his arm from where it was trapped under another man’s chest. The room will be hot, too hot, from so much body heat, and Jaskier will have a light sheen of sweat over him for most of the morning. But right now he has Geralt’s arm thrown over his collarbone and Vesemir strewn against his front, Lambert curled up behind him and Eskel resting heavy on his lower half, and this, Jaskier thinks, is perfect. It’s perfect.

…

The bard is alone outside the tavern, resting from a long performance. It smells of spring and night air- nothing like the piss, ale, and sex of the tavern’s patrons. A figure slips out after the bard, a knife in his hand. He means to cut the bard’s purse strings and run, to cut the bard himself if he must. But he hears snatches of the song the bard is humming, and he remembers something. A whisper. A rumor repeated too far and too wide to be entirely false.

They say a soldier laid hands on the White Wolf’s bard. They say he lost his hands and thousands of his men as well, ripped to shreds by an army of witchers and their magic, torn asunder and sent to the deepest pits of hell to rot forever. All over one man. One man who travels the continent singing of the Wolf and his adventures, composing and performing ballads with catchy, painfully familiar tunes. 

He knows not if this is the same bard as the one the stories speak of, but it matters little in the face of a witcher’s wrath. The knife glints as the figure returns it to his cloak and retreats. There are easier places to find coin this night. 

A few feet away, ears tuned to the sound of shuffling footsteps even beneath his humming, Jaskier faces the night and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading and commenting!! You're amazing. There will be some additions to this series- mostly shorter pieces in response to various prompts/plot bunnies people have left me in the comments. Feel free to leave any story ideas below, as I am always overjoyed to write stuff for people. 
> 
> You can also come yell at me on Instagram, if you like. I'm @igneum_art, and while my account has nothing to do with fandoms or writing, I'm always happy to DM people and chat! Hope you all are staying safe and happy during these weird times of ours ;)


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